IN WHICH WE HAVE TO SEE IN THE DARK
So ends the fourth act of our comedy.
After all her heroism and extraordinary efforts, after, as she feared,
offending Providence—after facing Tailordom—the Countess was rolled
away in a dingy fly unrewarded even by a penny, for what she had gone
through. For she possessed eminently the practical nature of her sex;
and though she would have scorned, and would have declined to handle
coin so base, its absence was upbraidingly mentioned in her spiritual
outcries. Not a penny!
Nor was there, as in the miseries of retreat she affected indifferently
to imagine, a Duke fished out of the ruins of her enterprise, to wash
the mud off her garments and edge them with radiance. Caroline, it
became clear to her, had been infected by Evan’s folly. Caroline, she
subsequently learnt, had likewise been a fool. Instead of marvelling at
the genius that had done so much in spite of the pair of fools that
were the right and left wing of her battle array, the simple-minded
lady wept. She wanted success, not genius. Admiration she was ever
ready to forfeit for success.
Nor did she say to the tailors of earth: “Weep, for I sought to
emancipate you from opprobrium by making one of you a gentleman; I
fought for a great principle and have failed.” Heroic to the end, she
herself shed all the tears; took all the sorrow.
Where was consolation? Would any Protestant clergyman administer
comfort to her? Could he? might he do so? He might listen, and quote
texts; but he would demand the harsh rude English for everything; and
the Countess’s confessional thoughts were all innuendoish, aerial; too
delicate to live in our shameless tongue. Confession by implication,
and absolution; she could know this to be what she wished for, and yet
not think it. She could see a haven of peace in that picture of the
little brown box with the sleekly reverend figure bending his ear to
the kneeling Beauty outside, thrice ravishing as she half-lifts the
veil of her sins and her visage!—yet she started alarmed to hear it
whispered that the fair penitent was the Countess de Saldar; urgently
she prayed that no disgraceful brother might ever drive her to that!
Never let it be a Catholic priest!—she almost fashioned her petition
into words. Who was to save her? Alas! alas! in her dire distress—in
her sense of miserable pennilessness, she clung to Mr. John Raikes, of
the curricle, the mysteriously rich young gentleman; and on that
picture, with Andrew roguishly contemplating it, and Evan, with
feelings regarding his sister that he liked not to own, the curtain
commiseratingly drops.
As in the course of a stream you come upon certain dips, where, but
here and there, a sparkle or a gloom of the full flowing water is
caught through deepening foliage, so the history that concerns us
wanders out of day for a time, and we must violate the post and open
written leaves to mark the turn it takes.
First we have a letter from Mr. Goren to Mrs. Mel, to inform her that
her son has arrived and paid his respects to his future instructor in
the branch of science practised by Mr. Goren.
“He has arrived at last,” says the worthy tradesman. “His appearance in
the shop will be highly gentlemanly, and when he looks a little more
pleasing, and grows fond of it, nothing will be left to be desired. The
ladies, his sisters, have not thought proper to call. I had hopes of
the custom of Mr. Andrew Cogglesby. Of course you wish him to learn
tailoring thoroughly?”
Mrs. Mel writes back, thanking Mr. Goren, and saying that she had shown
the letter to inquiring creditors, and that she does wish her son to
learn his business from the root. This produces a second letter from
Mr. Goren, which imparts to her that at the root of the tree, of
tailoring the novitiate must sit no less than six hours a day with his
legs crossed and doubled under him, cheerfully plying needle and
thread; and that, without this probation, to undergo which the son
resolutely objects, all hope of his climbing to the top of the lofty
tree, and viewing mankind from an eminence, must be surrendered.
“If you do not insist, my dear Mrs. Harrington, I tell you candidly,
your son may have a shop, but he will be no tailor.”
Mrs. Mel understands her son and his state of mind well enough not to
insist, and is resigned to the melancholy consequence.
Then Mr. Goren discovers an extraordinary resemblance between Evan and
his father: remarking merely that the youth is not the gentleman his
father was in a shop, while he admits, that had it been conjoined to
business habits, he should have envied his departed friend.
He has soon something fresh to tell; and it is that young Mr.
Harrington is treating him cavalierly. That he should penetrate the
idea or appreciate the merits of Mr. Goren’s Balance was hardly to be
expected at present: the world did not, and Mr. Goren blamed no young
man for his ignorance. Still a proper attendance was requisite. Mr.
Goren thought it very singular that young Mr. Harrington should demand
all the hours of the day for his own purposes, up to half-past four. He
found it difficult to speak to him as a master, and begged that Mrs.
Harrington would, as a mother.
The reply of Mrs. Mel is dashed with a trifle of cajolery. She has
heard from her son, and seeing that her son takes all that time from
his right studies, to earn money wherewith to pay debts of which Mr.
Goren is cognizant, she trusts that their oldest friend will overlook
it.
Mr. Goren rejoins that he considers that he need not have been excluded
from young Mr. Harrington’s confidence. Moreover, it is a grief to him
that the young gentleman should refrain from accepting any of his
suggestions as to the propriety of requesting some, at least, of his
rich and titled acquaintance to confer on him the favour of their
patronage. “Which they would not repent,” adds Mr. Goren, “and might
learn to be very much obliged to him for, in return for kindnesses
extended to him.”
Notwithstanding all my efforts, you see, the poor boy is thrust into
the shop. There he is, without a doubt. He sleeps under Mr. Goren’s
roof: he (since one cannot be too positive in citing the punishment of
such a Pagan) stands behind a counter: he (and, oh! choke, young loves,
that have hovered around him! shrink from him in natural horror, gentle
ladies!) handles the shears. It is not my fault. He would be a Pagan.
If you can think him human enough still to care to know how he feels
it, I must tell you that he feels it hardly at all. After a big blow, a
very little one scarcely counts. What are outward forms and social
ignominies to him whose heart has been struck to the dust? His Gods
have fought for him, and there he is! He deserves no pity.
But he does not ask it of you, the callous Pagan! Despise him, if you
please, and rank with the Countess, who despises him most heartily.
Dipping further into the secrets of the post, we discover a brisk
correspondence between Juliana Bonner and Mrs. Strike.
“A thousand thanks to you, my dear Miss Bonner,” writes the latter
lady. “The unaffected interest you take in my brother touches me
deeply. I know him to be worthy of your good opinion. Yes, I will open
my heart to you, dearest Juliana; and it shall, as you wish, be quite
secret between us. Not to a soul!
“He is quite alone. My sisters Harriet and Louisa will not see him, and
I can only do so by stealth. His odd other little friend sometimes
drives me out on Sundays, to a place where I meet him; and the Duke of
Belfield kindly lends me his carriage. Oh, that we might never part! I
am only happy with him!
“Ah, do not doubt him, Juliana, for anything he does! You say, that now
the Duke has obtained for him the Secretaryship to my husband’s
Company, he should not stoop to that other thing, and you do not
understand why. I will tell you. Our poor father died in debt, and Evan
receives money which enables him by degrees to liquidate these debts,
on condition that he consents to be what _I_ dislike as much as you
can. He bears it; you can have no idea of his pride! He is too proud to
own to himself that it debases him—too proud to complain. It is a
tangle—a net that drags him down to it: but whatever he is outwardly,
he is the noblest human being in the world to me, and but for him, oh,
what should I be? Let me beg you to forgive it, if you can. My darling
has no friends. Is his temper as sweet as ever? I can answer that. Yes,
only he is silent, and looks—when you look into his eyes—colder, as men
look when they will not bear much from other men.
“He has not mentioned her name. I am sure she has not written.
“Pity him, and pray for him.”
Juliana then makes a communication, which draws forth the following:—
“Mistress of all the Beckley property—dearest, dearest Juliana! Oh! how
sincerely I congratulate you! The black on the letter alarmed me so, I
could hardly open it, my fingers trembled so; for I esteem you all at
Beckley; but when I had opened and read it, I was recompensed. You say
you are sorry for Rose. But surely what your Grandmama has done is
quite right. It is just, in every sense. But why am I not to tell Evan?
I am certain it would make him very happy, and happiness of any kind he
needs so much! I will obey you, of course, but I cannot see why. Do you
know, my dear child, you are extremely mysterious, and puzzle me. Evan
takes a pleasure in speaking of you. You and Lady Jocelyn are his great
themes. Why is he to be kept ignorant of your good fortune? The
spitting of blood is bad. You must winter in a warm climate. I do think
that London is far better for you in the late Autumn than Hampshire.
May I ask my sister Harriet to invite you to reside with her for some
weeks? Nothing, I know, would give her greater pleasure.”
Juliana answers this—
“If you love me—I sometimes hope that you do—but the feeling of being
loved is so strange to me that I can only believe it at times—but,
Caroline—there, I have mustered up courage to call you by your
Christian name at last—Oh, dear Caroline! if you do love me, do not
tell Mr. Harrington. I go on my knees to you to beg you not to tell him
a word. I have no reasons indeed not any; but I implore you again never
even to hint that I am anything but the person he knew at Beckley.
“Rose has gone to Elburne House, where Ferdinand, her friend, is to
meet her. She rides and sings the same, and keeps all her colour.
“She may not, as you imagine, have much sensibility. Perhaps not
enough. I am afraid that Rose is turning into a very worldly woman!
“As to what you kindly say about inviting me to London, I should like
it, and I am my own mistress. Do you know, I think I am older than your
brother! I am twenty-three. Pray, when you write, tell me if he is
older than that. But should I not be a dreadful burden to you?
Sometimes I have to keep to my chamber whole days and days. When that
happens now, I think of you entirely. See how I open my heart to you.
You say that you do to me. I wish I could really think it.”
A postscript begs Caroline “not to forget about the ages.”
In this fashion the two ladies open their hearts, and contrive to read
one another perfectly in their mutual hypocrisies.
Some letters bearing the signatures of Mr. John Raikes, and Miss Polly
Wheedle, likewise pass. Polly inquires for detailed accounts of the
health and doings of Mr. Harrington. Jack replies with full particulars
of her own proceedings, and mild corrections of her grammar. It is to
be noted that Polly grows much humbler to him on paper, which being
instantly perceived by the mercurial one, his caressing condescension
to her is very beautiful. She is taunted with Mr. Nicholas Frim, and
answers, after the lapse of a week, that the aforesaid can be nothing
to her, as he “went in a passion to church last Sunday and got
married.” It appears that they had quarrelled, “because I danced with
you that night.” To this Mr. Raikes rejoins in a style that would be
signified by “ahem!” in language, and an arrangement of the shirt
collar before the looking-glass, in action.